hanging upside down from the rafters

Writing vs Writing

There are lots of things happening in my life at the moment, some expected, some not. For example, #1 son’s 18th birthday was fully anticipated, but the feeling of extreme age wasn’t. And I knew #2 son’s benign but intermittently bleeding mole needed to be removed, but a phone call on Monday saying ‘bring him in tomorrow’ was a bit of a shock. And I know uni term has started again, and was expecting to pick up a bit of note-taking work, but 7 hours a week of first year maths lectures was definitely not on my radar…

While I was sitting with Blake waiting for his op yesterday, I finished the book I took with me. Then I finished the other book I took with me. All the books on the ward were romances, and I do have some standards (not many, but shying away from romance novels is one of them). So I got my notebook out and started trying to write a poem. The ideas were all there in my head, but they just wouldn’t come out poetically. So I did a bit of free writing, which was stilted and precise. In the end I gave up and just sat there trying to doze off while eavesdropping on the people sitting round the next bed.

Fra Filippo Lippi: self-portrait

I think I’ve just worked out why I was having trouble with the poetry. I’ve done so many different types of writing over the last few weeks, my head has slipped back into its default business-style mode of writing. I can knock off a blog post easy as anything. I can write about a book I’m supposed to be marketing for Five Leaves. I adjusted #2 son’s personal statement to make him sound like the best amazing kid ever (which, of course, he is). I wrote a draft proposal for a grant bid, and advertising copy for two possible workshops.

More importantly, I haven’t been writing anything I really want to write. No fiction, no poetry. I put a submission together for the Nottingham Poetry Series juried readings, and I wasn’t happy with it, I made a few changes but couldn’t get my poetry head on at all. Didn’t get accepted to read, unsurprisingly.

This is wrong. Totally wrong. So my resolution for today is to do something about that. I’ve promised to write something art-related for Aly Stoneman’s open mic at the Hockley Hustle, and something suitable for Deborah Stevenson’s open mic at the Playhouse for Black History Month, hopefully the deadlines imposed by those promises will help me kick my head into the right space.